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The Adventures of Tom Sawyer, by Mark Twain
Chapter XXIV
TOM
was a glittering hero once more -- the pet of the old, the envy of the
young. His name even went into immortal print, for the village paper
magnified him. There were some that believed he would be President, yet,
if he escaped hanging.
As
usual, the fickle, unreasoning world took Muff Potter to its bosom and
fondled him as lavishly as it had abused him before. But that sort of
conduct is to the world's credit; therefore it is not well to find fault
with it. Tom's
days were days of splendor and exultation to him, but his nights were
seasons of horror. Injun Joe infested all his dreams, and always with doom
in his eye. Hardly any temptation could persuade the boy to stir abroad
after nightfall. Poor Huck was in the same state of wretchedness and
terror, for Tom had told the whole story to the lawyer the night before
the great day of the trial, and Huck was sore afraid that his share in the
business might leak out, yet, notwithstanding Injun Joe's flight had saved
him the suffering of testifying in court. The poor fellow had got the
attorney to promise secrecy, but what of that? Since Tom's harassed
conscience had managed to drive him to the lawyer's house by night and
wring a dread tale from lips that had been sealed with the dismalest and
most formidable of oaths, Huck's confidence in the human race was
well-nigh obliterated. Daily
Muff Potter's gratitude made Tom glad he had spoken; but nightly he wished
he had sealed up his tongue. Half
the time Tom was afraid Injun Joe would never be captured; the other half
he was afraid he would be. He felt sure he never could draw a safe breath
again until that man was dead and he had seen the corpse. Rewards
had been offered, the country had been scoured, but no Injun Joe was
found. One of those omniscient and awe-inspiring marvels, a detective,
came up from St. Louis, moused around, shook his head, looked wise, and
made that sort of astounding success which members of that craft usually
achieve. That is to say, he "found a clew." But you can't hang a
"clew" for murder, and so after that detective had got through
and gone home, Tom felt just as insecure as he was before. The slow days drifted on, and each left behind it a slightly lightened weight of apprehension.
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